Map to Ennorath
by The Ginger Muffins
Summary: When a smalltown student stumbles upon an old journal from a neighbor's yard sale, she's unaware of the trouble she's getting herself into. Book and movieverse combo.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: 'Tis Roni of The Ginger Muffins speaking! I am ashamed to say I was wrong when I said I'd be doing little more on this site than one shots and contributions to the future Hot Wheels fic I'm doing with the other Muffins. Honestly, this thing really started out as just something to get out my fandom (which was recently reborn– whoo!), so that Jai didn't have to suffer it.

It's really little more than the expansion of an earlier version of the story I did two or so years ago. I'm also shameful to say that it has an OC extremely similar to myself involved. But hey– I like the idea! To counter this, though, I'm determined to keep all of the cliches to a bare minimum. I like the idea of being thrown headlong into the LotR-verse, and I want to focus on the trials and tribulations of that. Wether or not there'll be any romance involved... I'm reluctant to decide. After all, that would show up in its full much longer down the road if it were to be.

But I'm rambling! Let's get to the story, shall we?

Oh! And just as a disclaimer: Boromir, Faramir, and all of Middle-earth to _not_ belong to me! They're J.R.R. Tolkien's sole possession. And kudos to Peter Jackson, Sean Bean, and David Weham for their superb portrayal of the brothers!

* * *

Chapter 1 

_When my father sneers, and I have seen it many times, it starts like a coy smile, then the corners of his mouth move swiftly downwards, and he bears his teeth on his right side._

_Yesterday was no different when he received the news that Mithrandir was spotted in the lower rings of the city. I never did learn why he hated the old wizard so, especially when his counterpart, Curunir, has always been to widely accepted. Mithrandir hasn't been denied stay at Minas Tirith before, at least in my memories, but my father has always made it very clear that he wasn't welcome._

_After Mithrandir took his leave this morning, it didn't take long for word to come to me that Father found a large toad in his bedchamber the previous evening. In winter! Of course, he accused Mithrandir of causing the strange occurrence. Only here do I say my brother and I had a good laugh together over it._

_"Never trust old wise men." he joked._

_And in an odd way, it's true._

_T.A. 3008, January 18_

_- - - - _

In Smalltown USA, it seems that the very day summer starts, everyone has their Yard Sale signs up. It's a strange phenomenon that spreads very quickly across the country as children are released from their schools into the free days that make up Summer Vacation.

I honestly don't mind it all. Yard sales to me are like vast treasure troves. There are so many slices of history and past beauty that you might not find anywhere else, much less for such a price! A lot of my prized trinkets and books are from these pockets of priceless pieces, including but not limited to: nearly the entire _Dune_ series, a groovy desk lamp, an encyclopedia of herbs, a book on the history of Scotland, and a jade necklace that has a habit of sleeping and showering with me.

However, all of that was just junk compared to this one thing.

It was a particularly sunny afternoon, and a Friday. I always have yard sale cravings on Friday, especially when I get paid at my little job in the local coffee shop. So, with a fraction of my cash (What? Do you think I spend _all_ of it on underpriced, overworn items?), I set out on a walk. Walking is the thing to do in Smalltown USA, after all.

I had passed by Mr. Ryan's house at least a thousand times before, but this time was different. He was throwing a yard sale! Mr. Ryan, about four and a half blocks south and a block west of my own abode, usually kept to himself. If I'm running to school early for whatever reason, I'd usually see him picking up the newspaper, wrapped up in a dark blue robe with a cup of tea in his hand, but that's probably the only time. He's remarkably nice, always giving compliments in his soft, proper, English voice. But, like I said, he kept to himself.

Anyway, I'm rambling. So, I was shocked, considering all I wrote above. But then, of course, I had to take a look around. I'll tell you, I was like a kid in a candy store, except it wasn't just the corner store down the street. It was a flippin' candy_ factory_. And everything was up for grabs! A lot of them were just small things, probably brought over the pond from his native England. They were definitely on the old side, but they were beautifully old. Every blemish on the wood, every piece of discolored glass seemed just to add so much character to the antique itself. My eyes well up at the thought! I couldn't believe he was selling all of this!

"I'm getting old, child." he said when I told him, "I don't want to be put to rest in a cluttered house. Some things I can do without."

"Unlike your grandfather clock." I commented, grinning up at him.

I haven't been able to see it up close, but I have stolen glances of it through his front window in the morning and afternoon, and hear its deep chimes in the evening. It was tall, simple, but still had an air of elegance to it, much like Mr. Ryan himself.

He nodded an approval. His clear, blue eyes seemed to sparkle, as if recalling fond memories. "Yes, it's been like a companion to me. My house would be rather empty without it."

Of course, with my budget and such a feast for my collector's spirit, I had to choose carefully. I looked through many things: small tables and chairs, lamps (I decided I had enough of those), table clocks. There was a very precious-looking jewelry box that really tempted me, but I decided to keep looking. I had been running around for about an hour by then.

Then, something caught my eye amongst the piles upon piles of books the senior had for sale. It was relatively simple, just a leather-bound book tied closed. I guessed it was green, it was hard to tell with all the wear on the material. The edges of the pages were uneven, and looked yellow. Yet, it enchanted me somehow. It looked like it held such age and wisdom. And, of course, you know how I am with really old stuff. I'm an aspiring anthropologist, you know.

Anyway, it was around this time that Mr. Ryan found me again. "That's the journal of one of my ancestors, you know." he said.

I looked up at him with wide eyes. "Really?" I asked, sounding eight years younger than I actually was.

There was a twinkle in his eyes. "Of course. I researched it myself."

I was hooked. "Dude, can I have it?" I almost pleaded, my enthusiasm showing in my voice. If I was an animation at that moment, my eyes would have had stars in them.

"You have to pay for it, but yes." answered the man with a chuckle.

I flipped the book over, quickly locating the yellow dot on which the price was written. I cringed. Forty dollars. "Yikes." I looked up at Mr. Ryan, "I'm sure it's priced much cheaper than it probably is, but it's kind of out of my budget." I started to hand it back to him, but he pushed it back.

"Just for you, I'll half the price."

I gaped at him. "Really?" I asked again, in total disbelief. I shook my head. It just was too much. I couldn't do it and keep a clean conscience. "No, just hold onto it for me, and I'll come back in two weeks." I insisted.

Mr. Ryan tilted his head at me, a smile creeping across his wrinkled face. "Perhaps you'll take it for twenty-five?"

"Ehhhh..." I was tempted, but still reluctant.

"Thirty?"

I grimaced. It still seemed cheap for such a wonderful book, but I took it. "Sure."

I laughed as he put my two weeks' spending money in a small, metal box. "Reverse haggling!" I exclaimed, "That's got to be a first!"

With the sun nearing the horizon, we finally said our goodbyes. "You know..." said from the sidewalk, "If this turns out to be blank, I _will_ be asking for my money back." It was possible, since I hadn't yet even stolen a glance at the thing from the inside.

Mr. Ryan smiled that same kind, knowing smile. "Let's hope it won't come to that."

When I finally got home, the sun was lower still, and the wispy clouds in the sky above were starting to turn vibrant shades of pink and gold. I let myself in; my mom was house-watching for a friend of our's, which meant I had the place to myself. Lucky me! I dumped my purse and the book on my bed, searching for a quick dinner. I spotted a Cup O' Noodles (teriyaki style, yum!), and threw it roughly together before tossing it in the microwave.

As it cooked, I wandered back to my room. The dying sunlight streamed in through a window, landing on the journal. It glowed tauntingly in the gold beams. I couldn't resist.

"Come here, you." I said, grabbing the book from my bed.

By then, the microwave was beeping, so I went and fetched my makeshift supper, grabbing my one of favorite pairs of lacquered chopsticks as I made it back to my bedroom. I sat cross-legged on top of the covers, setting my bowl in the space in the middle. I tried not to get sauce on the cover of the book as I attempted to untie the ribbon that was keeping the book closed. After a few moments, I set it down and gulped down some more noodles before I tried again.

After many minutes of wrangling the journal, my patience was rewarded as the two pieces of ribbon finally slid from each other's grasp. I felt my heart speed up as I pulled back the cover.

The first page was completely blank, except for a few symbols I couldn't distinguish. However, I recognized the lettering grouped bellow it, which I half-guessed was a translation. Unlike the symbols, the writing in English was a bit less neat. I squinted at the letters.

_As of this day, the 2nd of January in the 3008th year in the Third Age of the Sun, I have decided to keep record of my days. So says I, Faramir son of Denethor, Captain of the Ithillien Rangers._


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Roni again! With the second chapter! Yes, I know, I only started putting this up yesterday, but I'm in truth working on the fourth chapter currently.

And yes to the fact that things are going slowly. If you're looking for high action, you're probably not going to get it here, sorry! Things do start happening in the next chapter, though. Promise!

Boromir, Faramir, and all of Middle-earth belongs to the awesome J.R.R. Tolkien. I only own this silly, nameless teenager. :D Oh! And a round of applause and praise for Peter Jackson, Sean Bean, and David Wenham for their first-rate depiction of the brothers!

- - - -

_I spent most of today in the libraries again. I found some new books, hidden behind the many stacks of others. A few of them date back almost to the beginning of the line of Ruling Stewards, which interests me. Beyond that time period, the script seems to change, to the point that I can't hardly understand it. This, I could still recognize, though, so it occupied me far into the evening. Boromir was already fast asleep in our bedchamber by the time I emerged. It's odd how such works can consume time so quickly..._

_T.A. 3008, March 14_

I had to look again. _'...Faramir son of Denethor...'_. That couldn't be right!

If you don't know who Faramir is, you shouldn't be reading this. After all, it does shape the entire story, if you haven't guessed that already.

To be honest, I was (and still am) a big fan of J.R.R. Tolkien's works, particularly the _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy. The stories of such magnificent civilizations, epic battles, and most of all, the rich history that he put into every word just... did something to me, I guess. I'll go so far as to even say that it sparked my interest in history, then anthropology. I wanted to be the one to dig up Minas Tirith one day, or discover the original Red Books of Westmarch.

Of course, I was older and more mature by the time I plucked the journal from Mr. Ryan's sale pile, having abandoned childish dreams like that. So, now, to be staring in the face of what _could be_ the actual writing of one of the characters in the famous tale of the end of the Third Age (and one of my favorite characters, too, aside from his older brother, Boromir) was mind-blowing.

Denial set in. _No... that couldn't be it!_ I thought, _It's got to be a hoax._ But then, several other questions set in. If it was a hoax, why go through the effort of writing so many pages? This, of course, came up as I flipped through the book. The pages were downright covered with writing.

Was Mr. Ryan lying when he said that it was the journal of one of his ancestors? He'd be related to Faramir! It _couldn't_ be a hoax, then. He said he did all the research. But, what was there to research? All I knew of things related to Middle-earth were the books! And if I remember right, the farthest Faramir's line ever went was his son, Barahir!

I sighed heavily. _Just chill out._ I told myself. _Just read some and see how it turns out._

By then, I'd completely abandoned my noodles, laying half-empty beside me. I gingerly turned the page.

_It's odd, sitting here, writing my thoughts. I believe I was encouraged to try it out when I was younger, nigh after my mother died. One of the maids said that I had a knack for words, and that it might help any pent-up feelings I had. Of course, I never did so._

_I'm skeptical about such things at the moment, but I've read the documents from previous kings and ruling stewards before in the Steward's Library, so perhaps it will work out. But for now, I will keep with just recalling events of the day._

_This day was quiet, though, with Boromir gone to Osgiliath, and I have been lost in thought. That's probably how the memory came to me, and sparked me to start this journal. As of now, I am unsure as to if I should thank the Valar or not._

_T.A. 3008, January 2_

I frowned. It sure did _sound_ like Faramir, and a lot of what he spoke of and how he spoke it pointed towards authenticity. My heart swelled for a moment, at the thought of being able to know Faramir on such a level. If he was a real historical figure, what an experience to read his works!

However, I was still doubting. It was only one entry that I had read. A few more would solidify my belief.

As I read the next pages, I was thrown into the life of Faramir. He accounted well all that he did, what was happening at that time, and so on. He wrote close to every day, even if it was just a few sentences for each one. After a while, I had forgotten about my study, and was just reading for the sheer pleasure. And what a pleasure it was! I was almost giddy with excitement. The events were normal, with Boromir returning from Osgiliath, two welcoming parties (one being the entire court, another just the two brothers), slow winter days, and so on. However, it just captured me. Sometimes, I glanced up at the original script, trying to draw anything from his handwriting. I almost wished I could read in Westron, so I wouldn't have to settle with the scribbled translation. I half-wondered who had translated it before I dove back into the journal.

_It is interesting bring this book with me on excavations in Ithilien. However, if I am to keep writing such as I have been, it is best._

_Even though I have been called down here by my men because of some strange sightings, today has been remarkably uneventful. Quite a few of the rangers claim they saw a strange creature wandering about the lands, although none have been able to spot him since I came. A few have guessed that it knows it's being watched, and has hidden. I am doubtful, but no one truly knows what it is, so it's intelligence cannot be guessed. As such, it is still possible. I plan on staying for a few more nights, and will return to Minas Tirith if nothing else comes up._

_A few of my men have noticed me writing, it seems. Jokes have been passed round, and a few of the bold have tried to steal a look. Of course, it's all in good jest. Even so, I will not give them the satisfaction of getting a peep, especially now that I have nothing else to say._

_T.A. 3008, January 11_

_Nothing today. I spent most of my time either scouting with my men or other idle things in Henneth Annun. Either way, there were no sightings of the strange creature or anything out of the ordinary. Only the looming darkness in the East unsettles us._

_T.A. 3008, January 12_

_Still nothing. If there's nothing by morning, I will be setting back home. Storm clouds gather in the North_._I should hope the first rain of the year doesn't come on my return._

_T.A. 3008, January 13_

_No new reports came in the morning that enforced my stay, so I set off back home with a few of my men. For the marches that took us to Minas Tirith, nothing hindered us. However, as I feared, the clouds waited until my homecoming to release their load. My entire company was soaked and sneezing by the time we reached Ecethelion's Tower._

_As I also predicted, the welcome I received wasn't any warmer than the weather. Of course, much of the people were forced inside, but not many more than those that endured the rain would have come to greet me if the Sun were shining brightly. _

_Of course, my father didn't change our ritual. He listened dully to my report and released me soon after._

_Only Boromir succeeded in bringing me from my dark mood. We started the hearth in our chamber and shared a few tankards of ale. I told him of the empty summoning to Ithilien, and he listened intently._

_"Well, at least it got you from your library!" he joked._

_I couldn't help but laugh with him, but after it faded to chuckling, I asked him, "How long are you going to tease me like that?"_

_He grinned at me. "Until our s." he said, "As long as you keep laughing."_

_T.A. 3008, January 15_

At this time, I took another breather. I found my thoughts still floating amongst Faramir's words, though. I saw his relationship between his father and brother clearer than I had before. I saw his land through his eyes, without any maps or pictures. Just his words gave me the image. The White Tower stood like it did in the stories; Ithilien's cautious beauty was the same, but they held an almost personal touch, something from someone who had walked their paths for many years. I counted to myself, and estimated it was around twenty-five years. For Boromir, it was thirty. I shook my head in amazement.

Finally, I found myself able to step a little farther away from the story, and return to my original intent. However, it proved even harder to tell, now, if it was real or fake. Denial still rang strong within me, but now, even more things piled upon the authenticity's defense. Most of them were just small details: a couple ticks in the corner of a page that suggested him counting something, water marks, smudges. The original handwriting was much different to the translation. The runes were neat, although it held the softness of casual writing. The translation was rough and slanted sharply to the right.

I took another step back into reality, and turned to look at the clock. It was nearly eight! I whistled in appreciation of my superb time-wasting skills. I honestly didn't really do much in the summer, but I rarely spent such a chunk of my time getting absorbed in a book. However, the charms of the book still called to me. _One more entry._ I thought, and turned the page.

_My brother and I are five years apart. So, every ten years, we celebrate another decade added to Boromir's life, and half of that to myself. Then, another five later, I reach the point my brother reached before, and we celebrate again. My brother likes to pretend that he didn't get any older, that we were the same age at that point. However, we both know that he will always be five years ahead of me; I will always be five years behind him. I will always be half of Boromir's ten._

_He is always quick to praise and assure me, Boromir is. But there are times when my thoughts grow dark, and I wonder if I will always be only half the man that he is as I will always be half-way to ten years older when he already is._

_Such is what overcomes me now. It is how it seems sometimes... with our people, with our father. I don't hold it against my brother in the least, but it still occupies my thoughts. It continues to frustrate me, because it seems like an unchanging cycle that I have no power over. And I probably don't._

_As such, I guess all that is in my power is to give what I have, and pray that it is more than I think, or that my father will change his ways._

_T.A. 3008, January 16_

I sighed, and closed the journal. I was almost surprised by the sudden expression in his writing. Before, it was as he had said: a simple recording of events. There was some emotion conveyed, normally when his brother or father came onto the scene, but it was restrained. This also seemed rather held back, a lot of his thoughts hidden behind poetry, but it still seemed like quite the step. It was really a beautiful piece, and I felt for him. I'm a single child, so I don't know the whole dynamics between siblings, but it seemed much like what was written in the appendices of the Lord of the Rings. _"No jealousy or rivalry had arisen between them since, for their father's favor or for the praise of men."_ he wrote. So, I certainly had something to appreciate.

I wanted to read on, to see if the next day brought better times, but I knew I had to come back to Earth. I looked down at my noodles. The steam that had been rising from the bowl at the beginning of my writing extravaganza had floated away while it was neglected. Reluctantly, I took some of the pasta, and grimaced. It was stone-cold.

I sighed. "Better dump these out..."

I got up from the bed, and in doing so, knocked the book off. I squeaked in alarm and quickly got it, hoping it wasn't damaged. Thankfully, it wasn't, but something new caught my eye. The edge of a folded sheet of parchment was sticking through the pages. Curiosity overtook me for the third time that day, and I opened the journal to that page and took the paper. My wasted dinner laid again abandoned on the floor as I unfolded the parchment.

I felt my breath catch in my throat.

It was a map. Of friggin' _Middle-earth._


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Eh, finally! I've been distracted for a while, so even though I've had this third chapter done forever it seems, I've been unable to post it until now. But rejoice! It is up for your enjoyment! It's quite a fast chapter (well, a lot of stuff happens in it), so I hope you have your seat-belts ready:D

_I am writing so early in the morning for lack of anything else to do. Boromir is still gone, and I have sunk back into my usual place in the libraries to try and drown out my worry for him. I am deathly bored, which is a sharp contrast to my normal morning time perk. It's often my brother that needs heavy assistance in getting up at sunrise, but now that nothing lays ahead of me today, I find myself taking his behavior._

_Oh, well. I believe it was once said by Cirion, the Twelfth Ruling Steward of Gondor, that "Boredom often is the ship that crashes a man on the shore of discovery." Perhaps that will be my fate today. And if it is, may it be a good discovery, and not one of doom._

_T.A. 3008, January 4_

No, really. A map of Middle-earth! I'm sure my mouth was wide open as I looked at it. It looked so... _real_... not anything like the fake maps you bought from some random company, the ones that had pictures of characters from the movies posted around its border. This one was _real_: parchment, quill, and ink _real_. It was yellowed and delicate, worn by what seemed like millennia of existence. I couldn't help but just stare at it, letting my eyes wander across the lands as if I was on the Great Western Road itself.

The lettering was in Westron again, but with a different, older hand, it seemed. However, I could still recognize the lands. With my finger, I followed the path the Fellowship took so long ago. I started at Hobbiton, following through to Crickhollow, then through the Old Forest into the Withywindle Valley, out to Bree, then through the Wild, the Midgewater Marshes, Weathertop, the Road again, Rivendell, through Hollin to the Pass of Caradhras, then down through Moria, to Lothorien, lingering slightly, then with the Great River to the Falls of Rauros. I stopped there. That's where the Fellowship broke, and where Boromir fell.

Boromir... The story so far has been mainly Faramir, whose words I had read, but like I said before, Boromir was my favorite character. Not that Faramir didn't need love, too. It's just that I like Boromir's story, even though it ended rather abruptly and before his time in my opinion. Well, yeah, it would mess up the story a bit if he lived, but I still think he could use a second chance at life. I mourned his passing for a moment as my finger sat on the falls.

Then, I abandoned the paths of the Company, which was then splintered into three, and later many more, and followed Anduin southwards. I drew my finger down the falls, then followed the line of river ever downwards, continuously, until I hit a city. Osgiliath, I was sure.

Then, I knew it wasn't far off. I looked up a little, and found it upon the foothills of the White Mountains. Minas Tirith, the White City that Faramir knew so well, and I so little. I thought I had known a lot of that place as a frequent reader of the trilogy, but now, I knew I had a long, long ways to go.

Doubt still nipped at my ankles, reminding me that I _still_ wasn't entirely sure that this whole thing wasn't a fraud, set up to fool me and maybe Mr. Ryan, too.

I sighed, and pushed it away. I mean, look at the _proof_! This map just _couldn't_ be fake. I knew it from the depths of my heart, somehow.

Anyway, I spent some time pouring over the chart. "Some time" can be interpreted anyway you like– I don't even know how much I spent looking at it. I remember glancing once or twice at Mordor. It was hard to ignore, after all. Then, I remember looking back northwards to Mirkwood, then over to the Lonely Mountain.

Somewhere during that, I caused a rip in the edge of the parchment. I flinched, but then reasoned that it was hard not to damage it. It was pretty flippin' old, y'know.

So, I continued staring at it. I looked westward, and mingled in Eriador for a little more, mostly in the Shire. Then, I found myself at the Grey Havens, my fingers resting where the two white towers once stood. Maybe they still do. I wouldn't know.

After that, I went back east, back to Mirkwood. I glanced at the other forests. There was the Old Forest just outside the Shire, Fangorn, the once-beautiful woods in Ithilen... Then, I found myself looking back to Lothlorien. I frowned at it. Not in the bad way, but the ponderous, lip-pursing sort of frown. I was quickly submerged in wandering thoughts of the place, the Fellowship's stay there, the Elven flets, and so on. Halfway through trying to remember when Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel first founded the city, I spoke the name of it, probably as a prompt for my brain, which was probably working overload by that point.

"_Lothlorien_..." The word rolled off my tongue very slowly, almost like I was savoring each syllable, trying to gain from it what I could.

That is where something really unexpected happened.

Get this– Lothlorien lit up!

Well, not the forest itself, but the drawing of it on the map did. Its lines turned silver, like moonlight, as did the runes identifying it.

By that time, I had jumped up like a housewife that had just seen a mouse, leaving the map to float to the floor of my bedroom. I held the journal almost protectively as I looked down at the glowing paper with fear. My heart was pounding as I watched beams of the silver light come from it.

Then another thing. An image came up! You know– like one of those Sci-fi hologram projector things! It took a moment for it to register, but it finally came to me! It was a forest! I looked fearfully at it. It didn't necessarily _look_ like Lothlorien, or at least the one I knew. Even so, the large _Mellyrn_ were really only present towards the center of the forest. This image could have been from anywhere in the forest, really.

_You've gone nuts._ said the voices in the back of my head, _All those books have finally gotten to you and you've gone hallucinating all this crap._

Well, there was one way to find that out. More cautiously then I had the first time, I approached the map. I watched the image, panning and moving around almost like a movie, except it had no noticeable pattern, no loop. Slowly, I reached a shaking hand out to the image. It was like a tremulous inching, until with a final jerk, I lashed out as if to seize the picture. I grabbed air.

Momentum carried me to the ground, and I landed with a grunt on my shoulder. It didn't hurt, though. I probably wouldn't have gotten up if it weren't for the blinding light that overtook me at that very moment.

Well, it was close to blinding. It was enough for me to cry out in displeasure and cover my eyes. Then, a lot of stuff happened. In the midst of my shouts and raging thoughts, trying to figure out what was happening, I could feel the air shift around me. Loud wooshing and wirring noises filled my ears, along with creaking ones, as if my house was being torn apart by some unknown force. I was holding the journal and map, clinging to them in fear of losing them, although why, I don't know. I felt the ground beneath me leave, and I think I screamed, though I could not hear my own voice.

I didn't fall. Instead, I hovered there for a moment, motionless. I almost wanted to see what was happening, but I was too afraid to uncover my eyes. Then, I felt a jerk, like I was going in some tremendous speed. I was completely disoriented and scared, and it just continued building and building until I thought I would explode or _something._

Then, suddenly, I stopped. Quickly, gravity seized my body again, and I landed hard on my shoulder. It hurt this time. I hissed in pain, rolling over onto my back.

For a while, I laid like that, my journal and map resting on my chest. I became aware that the place in the book was still kept, my thumb acting as a mark.

Shortly after that, I began to open my mind to my surroundings. I was aware of a feathery breeze floating across my face. The ground beneath me was soft and grassy. Above me, I could hear the rustling of leaves.

Finally, after many minutes of just laying there, with a theory as to where I was, I opened my eyes. Green foliage greeted me, trembling in the wind. I slowly sat up, and looked around. Many trees greeted me. With a vague memory, I guessed that a lot of them were beech. They surrounded me, going onwards until my near-sightedness prevented me from identifying any break further out.

It looked exactly like the projection.

I knew where I was, but I almost acted like I didn't _want_ to know. All of it, the map glowing, me being magically transported to who-knows-where... It was all just too much. So, at loss of what else to do in my situation, I began to walk.

I don't really know how long I wandered, going in any which direction I really fancied at the moment. It was morning, or maybe more towards the afternoon. It was one of many of those reasonable things I ignored as I walked.

I found myself glancing around me, mostly in the trees. I denied why, but I still knew.

The forest seemed to pity me, almost, but I have a feeling they wouldn't have told me anything if I had asked. I had all the answers laying in my arms. I only needed the will to receive that strange, strange gift.

Anyway, my wandering continued for much longer after that point. The sun moved lazily across the unfamiliar sky, which I began to see less and less of as I continued further. I was beginning to think I was moving further into the forest.

Later, these thoughts were confirmed when I began coming across trees I had not seen before. They were massive in height, standing taller than all the other trees, and wide in girth. However, instead of the evergreens that would normally come to mind when such size is described, they seems more like the surrounding beeches, bearing similar leaves. I picked one of the few off the ground, possibly from the previous times, considering its state. Their trunks were silken and grey. I gazed upward in awe: my first sightings of a _mellyrn_, the great trees of Lothlorien. I couldn't deny it, now.

However, as I continued to walk, a new frame of mind beginning to form, I noticed something about those trees. Though still great to behold, they didn't have the effect they appeared to have within the books. It was like the many thousands of years of their life after the vanquishment of Nenya had not been kind to them. They were stooped, almost withered, like elder folk that had given their rule to the younger generations of the forest. Their time was over, like the Elves.

However, they still seemed to give notice to me as I passed by. I guessed that I was probably one of the first two-legged beings they had seen in a long while.

Geez, where'd this poet come from? I need her for my English class!

Anyway (again), I didn't tarry, despite the beauty. I felt driven on with purpose, instead of the lack of it, like before. I still walked casually, admiring all I stepped by, but I held onto something. It was like I was searching for something, though what I didn't know until I reached it.

I heard the trickling of the water before I reached it. Memories began springing into my mind, and I went towards it. Propelled forward, I broke into a run. I came into a clearing, and saw what I was looking for.

The small river had wide banks, either from shifting back and forth or by shrinking, both over a long time. It was clear, I could tell, as I neared it. Yet, it still seem antiqued. I followed the stream with my eyes until it bubbled over a falls, down to the continuing forest. The stream and its falls I both knew, and they bore the same name: Nimrodel.

Memories in words rushed quickly to me, and I turned around. It was that time that I became aware of a huge mound, from which sprung two rings of trees. The outer trees were white and bare of any leaves, although they still seemed to be alive, like the _mellyrn_ I saw before. And it was _mellyrn_ that made up the inner ring. And in the center of those trees, there was one more, great in size. I wracked my brain, but I couldn't remember the name of this place, although I clearly remembered the Fellowship coming there. I could remember Aragorn gazing out from the mound, one of the _elanor_ flowers in his hand.

As I recalled that, I became sadly aware of the lack of those blossoms upon the grass, which was no longer the spring-time green described. The trees were like those I had come across before, although they still seemed to hold to their dignity. For a little while, I walked around the mound, in awe of this place. There was still great beauty there, even though it was not the splendor of former years.

Well, I should say former _ages_. I mean, how many years has it been since all of that? Four thousand? Five thousand? We could be in the Eighth Age of the Sun, for all we know!

As I walked, I was stunned to suddenly come across flowers. There was only a patch of them left, but they were still there: the golden _elanor_ and the pale _niphredil_. I kneeled, gazing at them in wonder. I've never been one to long gawk at flowers, but this was an exception.

After a little while, I became aware that the patch was raised from the hill: a mound upon a mound. Then, I realized with some shock that it was a grave. Again, memories showed up (though I would have been more satisfied if they had arrived just a _little_ bit sooner), and I speculated that it was the final resting place of Arwen Undomiel, who gave up the immortal life of her kin for the love of King Elessar, or Aragorn as I'm sure most of us know him.

At that point, I knew I couldn't deny where I was anymore. I was in Lothlorien, wether I was asleep or awake, sane or completely _not_. Either way, I knew it had something to do with the map. My thumb throbbed dully, reminding me that it was still keeping the place in the journal. I looked down at the flower-studded grave.

"Well, you're here, and I'm here, so if you can help me figure this out, please do!" heard myself saying. Of course, there was no reply.

Uneasily, I sat myself down on the grass. The wind had picked up slightly since I had come to the clearing, so I held down the fluttering map with my leg while letting the journal rest on my lap. Carefully, I opened the book. I was surprised to find that there was still a translation, this far.

_I'm letting go this whole affair with the map. It's obviously has some affiliation with strange magics, and is dangerous in even my hands. Boromir and I have been disputing over it for too long, and Father has been getting too suspicious. Here it will stay, for as long as this journal is in my possession. I think it is better that I never had it, but I cannot change the past. So, I will stow it away here for good, and if luck is with me, I shall never have to look upon it again._

_T.A. 3008, September 13_

I glanced over the scribbled words again, mournful and slightly troubled. It seemed that Faramir's encounter with the map didn't end well.

I flipped back many pages, scanning over them to find the first mention of the map. Finally, about eight or nine pages back, I found it.

_Fortunate has my day been! I've found some strange map in the depths of the Library, where I normally can't go when all of Father's scholars are snooping about. But today, they were absent, and I looked through the scrolls. I was absorbed there for a couple hours before I came upon it. I was only able to steal a glance before I heard someone coming, and I put it in one of the newer books I was looking at yesterday._

_I brought it with me to my bedchamber, and there it stunned me. It is like no other map I have seen! They go beyond the borders of Gondor and Rohan, north and west to places that I've only read in history or heard in the whispers of superstitious women. The ruined kingdom of Eriador is clearly marked, with another stranger place. It says it is "The Shire", but I do not know what it is, or who lives there._

_I shall show this to my brother when he returns. I doubt he'll be interested, but I want to tell him of it nonetheless. I am eager to unlock its secrets!_

_T.A. 3008, September 2_

I ticked off pages as I went. Boromir wasn't in the least bit intrigued, as Faramir predicted, but still supported his brother's pursuit of the answers to the questions the map posed. For close to a week, Faramir's search was fruitless. Then, something happened.

_The map is bewitched, or else Boromir and I have gone mad! I was reading in my bedchamber, the map laid out to the side. It was evening, and Boromir came in, apparently with bad news about Osgiliath. But he didn't get much more than a few words from his mouth before the map lit up with some strange, silver light. Then, there appeared a moving picture of the city in front of my face, as if it came from the very air itself. I reached out to touch it, but felt nothing except for a mild chill upon my fingers._

_Then, all went black, and the next thing I remembered was flailing about in Anduin! My brother was with me, and luckily, a group of soldiers was about to pull us out. Their faces were all ashen, and a few claimed to have seen us fall from the sky!_

_I am weary of this object, now, but at the same time, my search for answers is fueled. I pray that my father hears no rumors!_

_T.A. 3008, September 8_

I continued on, now nearing the end of the man's journey with the map. Faramir made several more journeys with the map, earning many bruises from his falls. He determined that he could only travel to places that are present on the map, and that he could not determine where in that feature he would be put. In the case of Osgiliath, him and his brother were fortunate to have been dropped in the river. No doubt any of the buildings would have been painful!

I at last turned to the last page in which he spoke of the map before he abandoned it. Carefully, I scanned my eyes along the translation.

_Today has been dark for me. Two arguments-- nay, three_– _have been raised concerning the map. I fear I have done to much with it, for word has come up to my father. And I do not doubt the possibility that he has seen some glimpse of my secret, as shrewd as he is._

_He called me to the Hall in the afternoon and questioned me about strange happenings involving myself and my brother. I denied it, and his anger rose against me. It felt like an age had passed when the fires seemed to die down, and he finally released me._

_Then, it was later revealed to me that Boromir also came under our father's scrutiny. He came to me in the evening, obviously upset. He tried to get me to abandon my fascination with the map. "It will only bring further trouble to us! It is dangerous and unnatural, and now that Father's caught the slightest breath of it, he will not cease the questions!"_

_He pleaded with me, and after a while, anger swelled, and we quarreled. I find myself in shock, now that it is over. I doubt that such a thing has happened since we were young. I said many things I now regret._

_However, I am still torn. I now see what peril I've placed not only myself, but my brother in. But I still believe in my heart that not all the secrets of this map have been unlocked. There is so much more to this work, I feel. And yet, I wonder if it was meant to be revealed to me, if I had possibly made some mistake taking this from the libraries. It seems so old..._

_Perhaps in the morning, the shadows will be lifted from my eyes, and I will see what must be done._

_T.A. 3008, September 12_

I quietly closed the journal, and held it close. Again, I found myself feeling enormous sympathy towards Faramir. I now knew what had driven him to abandoning the map. It was for his brother. I prayed that he got his wish, and never set sight on the thing again.

And yet, this brought something new to my thoughts. Despite all of his travels with the map, he still didn't think he had figured out all there was to know about it. For a while, I pondered on that. It was a magic map, indeed, but still just a map.

The sun was westering as I thought. After a little while, my mind, strained enough with everything else that had happened, decided not to work anymore. With an exasperated sigh I fell on my side (the one I _didn't_ land on last time), feeling the grass against my face. I let my eyes slowly open, gazing at the grave beside me. Normally, I probably would have been creeped out, but I really wasn't. Which was kind of creepy in itself.

"Well? Have you got anything to say about it? Where else beyond places could a map take someone?"

I didn't hear any voices in or around my head, but I swear that it was almost like someone had just prodded me in the right direction, and I fell right on the answer.

Time! Where else beyond places could a map take someone but time!

Time and space have always been interconnected. In science, they are called the Time Space Continuum. In books, the setting has been the time and place of a story. Ancient maps could in a sense take the onlookers "back in time" by gazing upon the works of their forefathers.

Doubt nipped particularly hard on my ankle. I mean, a magic map to take me back in time? I must have been going _insane_! What was I thinking? Tolkien would spin in his grave at the mere mention of such a thing!

But again came the countering force. "There's only one way to find out." I found myself saying.

Already, a plan was forming in my head. With speed I'm still stunned by, I began calculating times, ages, birthdays, estimated years that whizzed by me in the form of four digit numbers. Finally, I was zapped back to the present, and I knew the perfect test.

I held the open map in front of me. For a moment I hesitated, but then, in the clearest voice I could muster I said, "Minas Tirith, the 2993rd year of the Third Age of the Sun!"

Everything grew quiet in the wake of my words, as if every living thing was holding its breath. Five seconds passed, then ten, then fifteen. Finally, I exhaled. I began to cast aside that idea, mustering again my wits to find out what else could be done.

But then, to both my shock and joy, the White Tower lit up. My eyes sparkled as I saw its true beauty laid before me, beyond all of the pictures and words I had in my mind's eye.

I felt the fear of the unknown stretch in front of me, and I drew back. And yet, I felt that I had to go there, despite everything. I took a deep breath and let it out, holding the journal close to me.

I looked over to the mound again, and smiled. "Thanks muchly for whatever it is you did for me. I pray that you got to rest in the arms of your husband after death."

Seriously. I said that. Come on, don't tell me _you_ wouldn't be saying weird stuff by this point!

Anyway, took a moment to look about me at the ancient forest, thanking it silently in my head, as well as God. He had to have had _something_ to do with this whole thing, don't you think?

As I listened, over the bubbling of the river and falls, I thought for a brief moment that I could hear singing.

By then, I knew I had stayed too long. Briefly, I looked at the grave again. Then, after a moment of hesitation, I picked one of the elanor growing there. I opened the journal and placed it among the pages, pressing it as well as I could.

Then, finally, the old book in my arms, I turned back to the map. The image of Minas Tirith hovered above the parchment, panning about the famous tower as if it some camera was mounted upon an eagle's back. Again I marveled it, unable for a moment to comprehend how all of this could have remained unfound for so long.

I spurred myself again. I knew I had to go. Stalling would only make it worse.

Again I took a deep breath and let it out. "Here goes nothing." I said, and thrust my hand through the image.

For a fleeting moment, I felt the mild chill that Faramir had described. Then, I felt myself being thrown back into the chaos of the strange wormhole that had first taken me to Lothlorien. Yet, something wasn't right.

Suddenly, I felt enormous pain in me, as if my insides were being murderously torn out of my body. I screamed in pain, but I couldn't hear it amongst the noise. I felt the journal dissipate in my arms, leaving them empty. Somehow, that awakened a deep fear within me and I opened my eyes. I was instantly assaulted by a blinding swirl of color, bending and moving like a living force. I fell ill, and shut my eyes again, trying to block out the pain that was beginning to overcome me.

Then, everything stopped. Fearfully, I opened my eyes again, and was shocked to see nothing but black. I was falling like a rock, and didn't know where I was. It was probably one of the most terrifying things that I had ever experienced, like a dreadful nightmare come to life before me. That nightmare ended abruptly with the feeling of stone biting into my flesh.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Hello, all! Once again, I know it's a bit odd to post another chapter of the story a day after the previous was posted, but this'll be the last time, I swear! After this, it's all completely caught-up.

This chapter took both a longer and shorter time to write out than I thought. In real time, it probably took as long (or less, even) than the other chapters, but it was extremely tedious. Writing as if you're sick is a hard thing to do, I've found, and I'd love reviews to try and improve upon it more. :3 Oh, and while you're at it, be sure to tell me if the new format I'm using is being a pain or not. Cheers!

Boromir, Faramir, and all of Middle-earth belongs to the awesome J.R.R. Tolkien. I only own this silly, nameless teenager and Miriel. :D Oh! And a round of applause and praise for Peter Jackson, Sean Bean, and David Wenham for their first-rate depiction of the brothers!

* * *

Chapter 4

_Boromir joined me briefly at Henneth Annun today. "I like to see my brother in the place he feels most comfortable, other than his libraries." he said. We had luncheon together, and I told him what news I had. Then, regretfully, he left again. It was really the only excitement there was today. My men here are dear to me, but that does little to help the slowness with which the days pass on the occasion._

_T.A. 3008, August 31_

_- - - - _

When I woke up, I was sore and cold. I groaned in response to the feelin, and shivered a little, moving as if to pull the covers closer to me. Pain exploded in my right arm, earning another sound from my throat, so I used my other limb in a vain attempt to contain some of my body heat. For a little while, I laid there, absorbed in the pain twisting and pounding about me, coated with a thick layer of chill. All in all, I felt _terrible_.

About that time, though, I had the mind enough to remember previous events, and in the wake of that sudden realization, I opened my eyes and tried to sit up.

Bad idea. I was met with an eyeful of sunlight, and I moaned in displeasure. My left arm, though uninjured, yelled at me about being more careful of possible bruises and cuts as I laid myself back down. I turned my head to the side, waiting for the spots in my eyes to fade.

A woman's voice came to my ears, but I couldn't get what she was saying. "Wha...?" I ground out, even though I didn't know if it was I who was being spoken to or not.

I felt cold hands against my face, and I flinched back for a moment, but then surrendered to their soft touch. I was ill and injured, something I was constantly being reminded of by the throbbing of my head and various other parts of me, as well as the occasional turn of my stomach. If the person had any intentions other than good ones, my welcome to the waking world would have been a bit worse, I think. How, I didn't bother to think of at the moment. I mean, gosh! I'd probably fallen at least eight feet or something!

I felt the hands again, turning my head back up on the pillow. Pillow. That's a good sign. A palm pressed itself against my forehead. I could feel the cold seep into my skull, almost numbing my brain, it seemed. Then, I heard the voice again, something that could have been footsteps, then quiet.

At that time, my body decided that there wasn't anything to stay awake for, and I slipped back into darkness.

The next time I woke up, I was only slightly better. I felt the pressure of something laying on my forehead, which I reached for, only just remembering to use my left arm. Cool dampness graced my fingers, then the texture of fabric. When they got to flesh, though it was burning hot. I had a fever.

After a long while slowly prodding myself in a pyrexia-induced stupor, I found that I had many bandages wound about me, including my head. I was sore all over, but the most intense tenderness was on my right side. It was most likely that side that I landed on, my arm especially, as I guessed that it was broken. Oh, and my head, too. Or else I wouldn't have been knocked out, would I? And thank goodness I was, really. Trying to move a broken arm is quite painful enough!

I finally let myself make the effort to try and think clearly, and brought up the possibility of my location. Was I in Minas Tirith? I couldn't be completely sure, but it was a very likely thing. The manner of my fall was one point. I remember feeling hard stone when I landed. Well, it _hurt_ like hard stone, anyway. Other than that, though, all I remembered was blackness and falling. It wasn't much to go by. The only thing I could really rely on was the map's accuracy. To have any more confirmation, I had to open my eyes again.

For a moment, I only looked through slits. Then, I saw that the sun no longer beamed directly at me, so confident I wouldn't be blinded again, I opened my eyes completely. It was very blurry at first, but my sight eventually focused on the ceiling. It was vaulted, made of white stone and supported by wooden beams. I became dimly aware of carved figures dancing along them.

_White stone, very good._ thought I. Well, I would have thought that weren't I still so dazed. I don't really think in words when I'm not focused. I just sort of... think.

Carefully holding the cloth to my head, I turned my head to the left again. Slowly, rows of cots came into focus, each with a small side table to their left. Only a couple were occupied. One was who seemed to be an elderly man, sitting upon the mattress patiently. The other was younger and laying down, apparently struggling with some unknown virus. This was confirmed he turned over and emptied his stomach into a pot next to him. I winced in disgust and diverted my eyes.

Once the place had grown quiet again, I felt lulled by the silence, and though I was awake enough to want to stay so, it wasn't quite enough. For the second time in that strange place, I let myself be wrapped in the cloak of sleep.

The third time I awoke, it was to a strong, clear scent. I blinked at the ceiling for a moment, confused. My head felt strangely clear compared to the other two times I graced the world of consciousness, and I wondered why.

My question was answered when I turned my head over. There, sitting at my bedside upon a worn wooden chair, was a woman. Her silvery hair and the lines upon her face suggested her age, but her eyes were keen and grey, like I imagined a Gondorian with a strong Numenorian heritage might have. She was busy resoaking the cloth that was on my head in some sort of herb-infused water.

She quickly took notice to my waking, and smiled at me. Her voice confirmed my guess that she was the one that had been tending to me for however long I'd been there, but that fact was pretty much completely overshadowed until later.

Because I had _no idea_ what she had just said.

"Wait,_what_?" I asked before I could restrain myself.

The only response I received from the lady was a strange look and a few mumbled words. Then it dawned on me.

_Oh, please don't tell me she's speaking Westron..._

Of course, I knew that my plea wouldn't be answered. Thoroughly frustrated with myself, I rolled my head back upward, choosing to frown at the stone above my head. I should have given thought to that! I mean, just about every decent article or book concerning Tolkien's languages made it perfectly clear that _no one_ in Middle-earth spoke English! The Common Tongue was Westron, even though it was made into English for the sake of us readers. Now, I was stuck somewhere (I still had yet to figure out where) with no ways of communication! I was mad at myself to say the least. I didn't even notice the woman place the cloth back upon my forehead. I didn't hear her begin speaking, possibly to herself. Until she came across a word I did recognize, that is.

"...Faramir..."

I started at the name, causing her to force me back into laying down. An almost stern look on her face, she replaced the rag on my brow, for it had fallen off. I couldn't look at her in my position, but somehow, I knew that she was giving my reaction some thought. I knew names, but that was it.

Quickly after the ordeal, though, I began to feel rather embarrassed. I mean, I didn't even _know_ if it was that Faramir, the youngest son of the Steward. Faramir could be a really common name, for all my nerdiness. I didn't know.

I think that was the problem with the entire thing. I didn't _know_. I didn't know where I was, what people were saying, what had happened to get me in such a bad condition (well, I had an idea). I didn't know who this lady was. I didn't know how I was going to get home, either. I briefly remembered my horror as the map turned to dust in my hands. I felt enormously at loss.

I hadn't noticed that my eyes were welling up until I felt a patting on my shoulder. Then, I became aware of the extra moisture and hastily brushed it away. The woman laughed sympathetically and mentioned another name, this time Boromir. However, the possible significance of that was mostly lost on me, for I actually was grateful for her kind words, even though I couldn't understand them. Sappy, I know, but it's true.

Anyway, she said something else, which I guessed was something along the lines of "It'll be okay.". As she got up, I repeated them quietly. She stopped, then smiled and nodded at me.

After she left, I was mostly on my own. The elderly man was gone, but the younger one wasn't. He slept soundly on his cot, even though what little I could see out of the window suggested it was the afternoon.

Yet, even with that fact and the effects of the strange herbs, I found myself drifting off again.

I came back to awareness with my sheets tangled and wet. It was dark, and I was breathing hard, although I couldn't remember for the life of me why. I didn't feel the familiar pressure of the cloth, and brushed my fingertips against my forehead to check if it was there. It wasn't, and to my surprise, the skin was cool. Things clicked together, and I came to the conclusion that my fever had broken while I was asleep.

However, the gladness quickly passed into a flusteredness when I realized (finally), that I had nothing covering me, save for the sheets, and half of those were on the floor. Feeling my face burn, I quickly pulled some of the dryer covers about me.

I also noticed that my arm, still in its sling, didn't complain nearly as much. That confused me, for I thought that it took at _least_ six weeks for an arm to heal with a cast. I began to question just how long I had been sleeping. After a short while, though, I found that I wasn't nearly as worried as I expected, and quickly fell back asleep, expecting that perhaps this time, I would wake up in the morning to come.

And by George, I was right! I was up bright and early in the morning, yawning and stretching my left arm. I felt positively wonderful, which was a delightful change from the other few times. Once I had glanced about and fond the large room unoccupied, aside from the sleeping man, I even dared to sit up, still keeping my covers about me. My back was remarkably stiff, but I didn't complain, in fear of alerting the woman from before.

There wasn't any need to, though, as she appeared just in time to catch me in the act. She looked rather alarmed, and rushed over to me, but then she stopped. She quietly scrutinized me from every angle, put her hand on my brow, then scrutinized again. Just around the point that I began to get squirmy, she turned and called one of the other ladies that worked in the place. Miriel, I think she said.

The two had a brief tiff. It seemed to me that the older woman was scolding the other for something. But then it faded, and the younger left with a nod of the head. Then, the woman who had been tending to me for so long turned back to me. She spoke slowly to me, as if I could better understand her that way (which I didn't), and pulled gently at my shoulder. I took it as a gesture to stand up, and sluggishly swung my feet over to the side of the cot. The floor was cold against my toes, but I dealt with it. With the lady's help, I was soon standing.

Then, she gingerly led me (dragging a couple sheets along) to another room. For a moment, she glanced around, then Miriel appeared, holding some bundle in her arms. She handed it to the other, then left quickly.

When the lady unfolded the cloth, she held up to me a simple dress. It was a sort of chestnut brown in color with long sleeves and a square neckline. About the waist was tied a belt of a muted blue tone. I wasn't one for dresses, but I still gave a smile of approval to her._It could be worse. It could have frills. _I thought.

She nodded at me, and gathered the fabric up again. Then, gently, she took up an edge of the covers I was clinging to. She spoke again in that slow tone. Even though I still didn't understand her, I had a feeling that she was bringing up that I needed to let go in order to put the dress on. It quickly came to my attention once again that I was injured. With my arm as it was, I wouldn't have been able to get the dress on by myself. Or else, she probably would have just handed it to me and left so I could change.

I am bold to the point of being obnoxious, don't get me wrong about that, but I'm still pretty modest. If I could have helped it, I would have gotten dressed myself, no matter how long it took or how painful it was. But the woman's will was strong, and I eventually surrendered. She was keen on not hurting me or my pride further, though, so I was thankful for that.

And huzzah, I was dressed! It had come to my attention during the process that a large amount of the bandages ( you know, the ones I discovered back when I was still sick) were gone. Even so, there were still scabs of cuts and scrapes, and perhaps even a scar or two. However, what was most compelling was the amount of bruising on my right side. I looked like I was the victim of some crazy painter, for that side of me was blotted with various purples, greys, blues, and sometimes even yellows! It was crazy.

Anyway, after I had the dress on, the woman and I made our way back to my cot, where I sat down. When she had come with a comb, she tried to fix my hair herself, but I took the wooden thing before she could. She looked displeased, but didn't try to steal it back. I could hear her mutter something under her breath while looking at my head. I guessed that it had to do with the fact that my hair was short. It was unladylike to have short hair in the olden days of my own history, so I doubted this was any different. When I had tamed my mane as much as I could have, I gave the comb back to the woman. She got in a couple strokes after that, which I tolerated, then turned and disappeared.

Soon after, she returned and quietly pulled up a chair beside me. She folded her wrinkled hands under her chin, letting her grey-eyed gaze fall to the floor, as if pondering something. Just when I began to wonder if I should try and get her attention, she raised her look to me. She smiled softly, possibly to try and comfort me.

Quietly, she made a gesture to herself. "Ioreth." she said clearly.

It quickly dawned on me that she was trying to introduce herself. I pondered the name, wracking my memory for anything to put to it. I ignored another motion she made during my concentration. I _knew_ I had heard that name before, somewhere, but I failed in recalling. I sighed sadly.

The woman, whom I now knew as Ioreth, looked sadly at me, but then stood up and walked off, saying something over her shoulder. I was confused, for I thought I made clear that I knew what she was trying to do, and even started to get up to try and confirm that, but she was gone. Letting another sigh escape me, I sat down, falling into my growing sea of questions.

After a little while of sitting, I grew restless. Eventually, just to entertain myself, I tried in to straighten the sheets on my cot. It looked much better than before, but not nearly as neat as those upon the unoccupied beds. I glanced over to the young man from before to see if I'd woken him up, but was still fast asleep. Slowly, I found myself taking in his peaceful features. He had a face tanned and angular and brown hair. His beared looked decently maintained, as well. His lip had a scab on it, though, and there were a few other scratches and such that suggested his life had been an active one to say the least.

About that time, I was startled by a loud creaking towards my left. I might even say I jumped. The man stirred. As I looked over, two great wooden doors swung in, revealing two boys. I was surprised by how young they were for their height. The smaller looked to be no more than ten, although his expression was almost grimly mature. The taller seemed more towards my age, fifteen or so. He looked proud, but there was a spark of restlessness and possible mischief in his eyes. They both were similar, with the same darker tone of hair, though the ten-year-old's held a bit more curl.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the man, who had by then sat up, bowing his head. Ioreth, who had appeared to greet them, gave them each a nod. "Boromir... Fararmir." she said to them, saying something resembling a title before their names.

At about that time, the proverbial lightbulb turned on above my head. It was _them_. The two sons of Denethor. Boromir and Faramir. For real.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks so much for all of the support you've given me through out the making of this story, you all. It's been very encouraging, and I'm almost sad that I haven't been quite so quick in getting this chapter out. I fell briefly from my fandom-high, and I've opened the file several times and end up not doing anything, but I've got it done. Finally.

Boromir, Faramir, and all of Middle-earth belongs to the awesome J.R.R. Tolkien. I only own this silly, nameless teenager, Miriel, and the random Gondorian, who will hopefully have a name soon. :D Oh! And a round of applause and praise for Peter Jackson, Sean Bean, and David Wenham for their first-rate depiction of the brothers!

* * *

_Being in the woodlands of Ithilien makes me think of its past, back in the time when Gondor was but a young kingdom. Then, it was praised as much for its natural beauty as Osgiliath was for its own, built up by men. But now, both have lost most of its former glory. I fear that if Ithilien continues to dwindle like it has, when my people are finally able to heal all the hurts the Enemy has done, we will won't have enough of it left to build and repair._

_T.A. 3008, April 5_

_- - - - _

I kid thee not. There they were, my two favorite characters of all time, in the flesh. Any sort of notion to my jaw hitting the floor and my eyes bugging out is really unnecessary.

A few seconds after the initial shock wore off, the first thing that really hit me is that I needed to show respect, somehow. They _were_ the sons of the man ruling Gondor, after all. Somehow, I was able to do a decent curtsey, all the while keeping my eyes downcast and my mouth clamped shut. For having the brothers but fifteen feet from me, I was amazed I was capable of doing such a thing. But I did, and it saved me from having to deal with a whole mess of stuff, at least for a little while.

I let my eyes up just in time to see Faramir's face go through a remarkable change. What was once an expression of gentle neutrality suddenly brightened to one of open joy and energy. Quickly, he ran over to me, shouting excitedly. I really wish I knew at that moment what he meant, so I could give him a proper reply. However, I didn't, so all I could give him was a smile. And a genuine one! It was good to see the kid in him still, despite that familiar calm shell.

Ioreth caught the younger boy in mid-sentence, telling him something he apparently didn't like, for his face instantly fell again. He directed a question to me, his expression telling confusion and slight disappointment. I guessed then that the woman had told him that I couldn't understand their language, and in response, the son of the Steward asked for a confirmation. I was sad that the fact was true, but I could do nothing but just shake my head.

My attention was drawn back to the older of the brothers, as he spoke to Ioreth. I was surprised by the depth and noble tone of his voice. They held a brief conversation, which I suspected was a relay of what had happened to me. I can't say I was completely sure, and I wondered several times why they would be so interested in me, of all people. With a sudden sinking feeling, I fingered the possibility that they had seen me fall, or heard it from someone else.

I'd been so caught in my thoughts for the moment that when silence finally fell into the room again, I was surprised to see that Boromir had crossed the space between me and the door and was standing steadily beside his brother. He judged me with a critical eye, strong arms folded across his chest, and by his look I could tell that he didn't trust me. Faramir seemed to recognize it as well. "Boromir..." he half-whined, addressing the issue with the tone in his voice.

A sigh issued from the older of the two, and he looked to me, his face plainly saying _"Fine, I'll be friendly. For now."_. It was something I couldn't help but grin at, sort of sealing this silent pact between us.

Right around then, the son of the Steward took a few reluctant steps towards me. His words, by pure guesswork, are as follows:

"I am Boromir, son of Denethor," for he gestured to himself, and then to his sibling, saying, "and this is my little brother, Faramir."

Then, there was silence. Three pairs of expectant eyes looked at me, and I began to wonder if I'd done something I shouldn't have. I let out an awkward-sounding "Uhnnn..." as I tried to compute whatever it was I was meant to get.

That's when it hit me. Boromir had just introduced himself and his brother to me, and he was expecting for me to be like all normal people and return the favor. Right after that realization, I got the connection with Ioreth. She'd done the same, but somehow, I'd missed it, and she gave up. But now, I was facing the same thing, and a decision. My head was swimming faster than a starving Great White after a young seal

It was a decision for everyone to introduce themselves to another, but most of time, it was done without thought to giving away that information of a name and perhaps a hometown in such-and-such a state. But now, as everything began to sink in, I found that I didn't_want_ to tell them. I wasn't _meant_ to be there at that moment. I wasn't _meant_ to be face-to-face with whom I thought were fictional characters. I knew what year they were born, where, who their parents were, if they'd get married, who they'd get married to... I knew if they would survive the war that they've known was coming all their lives. By simply opening my mouth, I could ruin their lives. Heck, I could probably mess up the entire _world_ here if I gabbed enough.

And let me tell you: it was friggin' _terrifying_ to realize that.

Some of that shock must have shown in some shape or form, because the threesome looked suddenly concerned. As much as I could, I tried to shake myself of the side-effects of holding doom in my hands and figure out a plan. Yet, as good at bouncing back as I am, I was still frantic on the inside, and because of that, I couldn't come up with anything– a fake name, a fake hometown in such-and-such a fief– nothing. The meaty hand of reality had smacked the creativity right out of my poor, d grey-matter. So, I did the next best thing.

I played amnesiac.

I shook my head. "I..." I started to say, but remembering that they couldn't understand my speech, I just trailed off with a sigh.

Boromir looked hard at me, sucking his teeth. When he turned to Ioreth, he received from her something that sounded along the lines of "I told you so." I wondered if my silence when she tried to get my name earlier on had given her the same impression as my more recent display. Did they think that I was lying, or did they believe me and assume that something had happened when I hit my head? Did they even know I fell? All the questions without answers were beginning to tire me out, and it wasn't even afternoon yet.

When I'd come back from my moment of exhaustion, I found Faramir in deep conversation with the healer. His older brother stood cooly (if not a little impatiently) to the side. I stayed where I was, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot as I tried to comprehend the conspiracy taking place. Whatever it was, the boy was pretty darned excited about it. His face was bright, as if he thought something was the best idea in the world. And Ioreth seemed to approve as well. For a few more minutes, I listened to their speech, the sound of which reminded me of a semi-precious gem.

Okay, I'll take a hint. No more metaphors.

Anyway, they eventually came to what looked like an agreement, and I was approached once again. I tried to look relaxed even though I wasn't. Eventually, as they went back and forth for a little while, probably trying to think of some way to relay the information to me, I just had to fidget, and I settled with tapping the heel of my foot on the floor. They seemed to have figured something out, for Ioreth stepped forward, looking at me.

The following length of time consisted of a game of charades mixed with a lesson on Westron and the temperaments of Gondorians. Eventually, though, I finally wrested from the mush of gestures, words, names, and the occasional tone-harsh comment what exactly had been decided about me. Well, first of all, I figured out I was in the Houses of Healing, in Minas Tirith, in Gondor. That certainly confirmed a few things. But anyway, I was to stay there until something or other. Then, there was something about Faramir and his father. After that, they said I was going to be taught how to speak and write Westron by Faramir and Ioreth, and something else with Ioreth.

I know, it's a bit rough, but remember that I had to translate this entire thing _from scratch_. No phrase books, no school teacher to point out any mistakes I might have made. Seriously. It was hard beyond measure. The mere _mention_ of the difficulty makes my brain twitch.

Needless to say I was all but drained by that point. The moment the brothers left, I walked to what I hoped was my cot and collapsed on it. I think Ioreth scolded me, but I was way too far gone to notice or care.

Before I'd even realized that I'd fallen asleep, I was up again. No longer was it morning, but rather late afternoon. I sat up and stretched, looking about at my surroundings. The area was completely empty; not even the man from before was in his cot anymore. So, in search of both entertainment and somewhere to relieve myself, I began to wander the premises. I found where I had dressed myself, which was what appeared to be the storage area for various herbs. I quickly realized why I had smelt funny after changing.

After a long while, I thought I had a vague idea of the place. I was surprised that out of all of the healers that I met along the way, none were Ioreth. But then, of course, she found me walking about aimlessly the moment I thought that, and quickly pulled me into what seemed like a small, mess-hall type of room. There were a couple tables and benches, at one of which the man from before was sitting. He looked up at me and nodded. Before him was a plate of simple bread and stew, which he appeared to be working his way through with some speed.

Ioreth spoke to me, and I gave a questioning look. In response, she put her hands under her head and feigned the look of a sleeping person. She was wondering if I had a nice nap, I guessed. I chuckled at her. "Yes." I answered. If there was one thing I had learned in that grueling translation earlier, it was how two say "yes" and "no" in Westron.

The woman looked genuinely surprised for a moment, which confused me. Did I say the wrong word? I hoped not, or else my entire hour-long torture was for lickety-split. But then, I realized that I hadn't laughed once since I first came to the Houses of Healing. Which was depressing. I shrugged and smiled nervously. But she returned the gesture as if to say "Hey, it's good. You should do it more often!"

After that, she tried to get me into the room to eat. I assumed I'd been fed something in my half-conscious stupor while I fought the results of my fall, since I was still alive and all, if not perhaps a little malnourished. However, it probably wasn't anything of particular measure to actual bread and such. Even so, I still needed the restroom, badly. As she called another healer to bring in some more food, I struggled to try and explain my predicament to her.

Apparently, the potty-dance was more universal than I thought, for the moment the elder lady noticed my fidgeting, she seemed to get it. With the presence of someone who knew exactly where she was going, she led me away. After a dizzying amount of hallways, I found myself suddenly outside.

I gave a grunt of displeasure as the sudden brightness left me blind for a moment. I was still pulled onwards, though, and we eventually came to what was pretty much an outhouse. Good _grief_ it stunk to high heaven, and they didn't have toilet paper, either, but I didn't really care.

When I was back inside, I was once again rendered sightless. But this time, it was dark, not light. Ioreth seemed unaffected, though, for she continued walking with the same determination, her wrinkled hand firmly gripping my wrist.

And I was back in the hall, after a brief visit to the main room to wash my hands (although I will say there was no soap in the process). I was blinking furiously to try and get my eyes to change; I think I heard the two women tittering amongst themselves. Eventually, I could make out another plate of food on the far table, ownerless. I glanced back at Ioreth, pointing questioningly at it. She nodded and encouraged me to sit.

I glanced apprehensively at the food before me for a little while. I'm sure the ladies were good cooks and all, but I still had my doubts. After all, there was no FDA in Gondor. But then I reasoned that there really wasn't much to fear. At worst, I'd catch something and be miserable for a few days. And by that point, I was _complete master_ of being miserable.

At first try, I scalded my tongue. Hot isn't really my thing, either, so I of course made a big deal about it. Apparently, the face I made was hilarious to the man across from me, the only one left after the two women whisked away for one reason or another. After a second attempt, though, I found the stew was pretty good. The ladies didn't devote their herb closet solely to medicine, it seemed. I also dunked some of the bread in the bowl, which wasn't quite as tasty, and my tablemate looked at me oddly for it, so I resolved not to do it again.

It was relatively uncomfortable sitting there with the guy. He looked sort of nice, but mostly grim and proud. And rough. Like I said, his face wasn't exactly peaches n' cream. He regarded me with what looked like hidden interest, glancing in my direction every once in a while. He once tried to speak to me, but I just shook my head. The whole language barrier thing was getting frustrating really fast. I honestly wanted to talk to him really badly. He seemed like the kind of guy that could use some good conversation. But I couldn't supply that conversation without some disaster, and it irked me to no end.

Eventually, he got up, seeking to return the plate to what I assumed was the kitchen– or something resembling it– in the next room over. As he was walking, I noticed a bandage about his leg. I started to address it, but stopped myself, though a little too late. A bit of a moan that had been the beginning of words still escaped my lips. The man turned about, a question in his brown eyes. "What?" I think he asked.

"Uhh..." I felt very squirmy in the situation, my curiosity and desire not to humiliate myself clashing.

But the Gondorian seemed to understand what had gotten such a response from me. He gestured to the bandage. "Yes?"

I nodded meekly. "Yes."

He put his bowl down, looking thoughtful. But then he held out his arm with his first two fingers out and curved. I got it when he hissed at me.

"Oh!" I said, "Yes!"

Ugh. I probably sounded like a dork.

But he seemed to be enjoying this interaction, however bazaar it was. He moved his arm to his leg, and touched the fingers to the part where the bandages were. It had bit him in the leg, apparently. I vaguely remembered my first memory of him. It must have been venomous, or else he wouldn't have been stuck up in the Houses like he was. It would explain the barfing, too.

After that little burst of communication, though, he fell back into his quiet self, and he picked up his bowl and was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thanks again for all of you guys' support. I'm stunned that you've taken such interest in my story, despite how slow it's been. I've been struggling with both authenticity and the usual everyday life issues, but the chapter's finally done! Alas, it's very short compared to my other chapters, but flow-wise, it works. Hopefully, I'll be able to get more into this next chapter. Being on full-improv isn't exactly the smartest tactic for long-term stories...

Boromir, Faramir, and all of Middle-earth belongs to the awesome J.R.R. Tolkien. I only own this silly, nameless teenager, Miriel, and the random Gondorian. :D Oh! And a round of applause and praise for Peter Jackson, Sean Bean, and David Wenham for their first-rate depiction of the brothers!

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_I can't believe the horror this morning brought me! I don't remember how many drinks Boromir convinced me to have; he had a few pints in him already by the time he was attempting to pour more ale down my throat (I wish that was a jest.). After that however was only a wheel of colors and sounds. Thankfully, I awoke in my own bed, but my head felt like a couple of smiths were using it as an anvil._

_Of course, as such, I was unable to set off again to Henneth Annun. Alas, for I had received word just two days past that Mablung had returned from a misson near the Crossings of Poros!_ _However, as I ponder my misfortune, the winter weather has been especially cruel. I was debating whether I would be able to depart, for a large cloud cover had been approaching; a storm during the journey could easily be disastrous._ _Already I am longing for the gentle flowering of spring! Yet, it is the bitter cold of winter that makes the warmth a blessing. So, I for that I will endure. Just as all good things must end, so must it return._

_If only that could be applied to more than simply the seasons._

_T.A. 3007, November 13_

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Lessons started the next day. I had woken up a bit less perky than the last time, but Faramir being Faramir, and a kid, he did a good job of getting me jazzed about getting up. As a start to the day, he insisted that we go outside. Still stuck in my nightgown (also acquired from the healers), we headed out the door. As now seemed per usual, I was set into a fit of blinking. My eyes just decided not to like light adjustments after I got transported here it appeared. My stomach lurched at the memory of all of the colors and movement about me, dancing like those backgrounds that always showed up in movies about the sixties and/or . But then my sight cleared, and those thoughts disappeared as I gazed upward in amazement.

The tower of Ecethelion loomed above me, even though I guessed that we were close to the top. I could only count one wall above us before the spire. I remember the citadel being described as "a spike of pearl and silver" once or twice, and it really did look like that as the sun rose out of the east, casting shades of gold and pink onto one side.

I've seen pictures of all sort of things. Notre Dame. Big Ben. Leaning Tower of Pisa. Well, I haven't really _seen_ seen them, being stuck in the country. But even if I _had_ seen seen those sights, I don't think I would be any less dumbfounded.

I gaped openly at tower for several minutes before Faramir decided to get my attention. He smiled at me, then pointed his finger at one of the houses to either side of the tower. It was hard to see them, with the roof of the Houses of Healing to contend with, but I eventually got a good look at them. The boy moved his hand to his chest, and said something that I actually understood. "My home."

I almost stopped , remembering Mom and my own home, so far out of my reach, but Faramir proceeded to drill me into saying "home" at least a thousand times over, driving the thought from my mind.

The boy proved to be a pretty good teacher. He was very patient with me, holding up various items he had brought along (like an apple) as well as some within the Houses themselves. It helped, too, when I was struggling.

I guess now that I was just so used to being able to speak to people freely that I thought I could just jump right into things after the first lesson. I went around in circles trying to put things together when the son of the Steward was just trying to teach me simple words. At one point, he had to grab my shoulders to snap me out of it. After a deep breath, though, we dove back in.

Boromir hung around, clearly not trusting me alone with his brother yet. He stood and sat about, normally on the edge of sight, right in that place in the corner of your eye where he wasn't quite visible but noticeable.

It was such an odd contrast between them. Faramir seemed bright– not exceptionally cheerful, but enough to make the corners of the mouth twitch a little. Yet, Boromir was brooding. I wondered if he was always like that, and after gathering what I knew of him, I guessed that he wasn't. I was actually a bit sad that he disliked me so much. Doesn't everyone want their favorite fiction character to like them? I didn't blame him, though. After all, I was this strange that fell from the sky and couldn't speak his language.

I think Faramir noticed the slowly building tension, because he aimed a rather meaningful look at his brother. After a little while of that, he finally addressed it openly. The elder replied to it by saying something in a low voice, to which his younger sibling seemed to passionately disagree. For a little while, they went back and forth, but then it quickly died down, and the lessons continued.

At mid-day, they left. My head was spinning with words and letters as I had my luncheon. I tested some of my newfound vocabulary with the man I had met the day before. He was surprisingly eager to help me, and I found that with his aid, I actually had retained a bit more of the lesson than I had hoped. I kept my ego in check, though, reminding myself that the real test would come at the next day's lesson.

Eventually, I got the nerve to try and ask the man's name. It was awkward, as always (though "always" can only be traced to yesterday, but I digress), but I got the point across after a while. And an answer! He said his name was Dairuin. Of course, in Gondorian fashion, he tagged along "son of so-and-so", but I forgot what he said his father's name was. Sorry.

He went off on some spiel having to do with a guy named Barahir. I couldn't really remember anyone else named that except for Faramir's grandson, which was of course out of the question. I made a mental note to find out the connection once I could understand everyone better.

Right around that time, Dairuin seemed to remember that I could only comprehend the tiniest bit of what he was saying (though I nodded like I understood every word), and stopped immediately. With the barest flush to his face, he gave me what sounded like an apology. I tried to give a forgiving smile, hoping that I would learn how to reply to something like that in the near future.

Sadly, our conversation didn't really continue very far beyond that, for the very moment that I finished my meal and had taken the dishes to the kitchen, I was immediately grabbed by Ioreth and thrust into another room. It was a study-like place, with chairs and desks. I had been there before– it was the same place Faramir had taken me to learn letters. However, what I was tutored was completely different.

I'll call them etiquette right now, but back then, especially when I wasn't in the brightest of moods, I would have said they were lady lessons. I was taught in various things, such as walking, curtseying (which wasn't that hard, since I came pretty close when I first met the two sons of the Steward), and eating. I learned how to greet and converse with people politely. I was taught different customs of the Gondorian peoples, such as the Standing Silence, in which we would stand up and face the West before what was called the day meal, but was more like dinner in my case. I could vaguely remember that in the books, when Pippin was staying in Minas Tirith.

Even though I didn't say it, I already knew the significance of facing West. I knew about Numenor and the Undying Lands. As I pondered it, I realized that the Standing Silence to them was kind of like blessing the food at home. That in turn made me wonder if there was a God in Arda, and if He was the same One. I remembered the Valar and such were compared more to the Greek Gods, but there was still Eru, who was above all of them in a way. Eru could be God, which would I guess make the Valar angels or something. I wouldn't know, really. I hoped I wouldn't be struck by lightning for thinking that. Do the Valar strike people with lightning? I'm thinking too much.

The moment routine set in, the days just flew past me. I'd get up in the morning, break my fast with Dairuin, then settle into lessons with Faramir. Then, I had the mid-day meal (Gondorians don't normally eat in the middle of the day, but I was still getting up my strength and all of that.), etiquette lessons from Ioreth, and chores. Once I was considered well enough, I helped in minor things that I could do with one hand. After that was the day meal, when I'd go over my day's lesson with Dairuin and listen to him and the other women talk. Following would be some treatment to my healing wounds, and once I had helped with cleaning the dishes and other assorted chores, I was free until I had to go bed down.

It was around the third day of the week when I finally learned from Faramir which days were which. After that, I kept a close eye on my makeshift calendar. I decided that it was August 11th when I first really woke up, a Monday. It was three days later, a Thursday, when Dairuin left.

It ended up that Dairuin was actually a part of the tower guard. He was off-duty with his friends in the fields when he had the encounter with the snake. Now that he was well enough again, he was going back to his normal shift.

Faramir and Ioreth let me take some time from lessons to say goodbye. And honestly, that's all I really _could_ say, and it made me so frustrated. I wanted to tell him that he'd become a good friend to me, that I'd miss him, and that I wished him good luck getting back on the job. But all I could say was "Goodbye." as he donned himself with what he'd brought with him to the Houses. As he poised to turn and leave, I was surprised to find that my eyes had started to become rather misty. I hastily wiped them away.

Dairuin apparently noticed that, because he stopped and came back towards me. With an uncharacteristically gentle smile on his face, he placed his hand on my shoulder. There was a pause, and I knew he was struggling to find words as well. Finally, he came up with something.

"We'll meet again." he said. It was something I'd learned recently– a collaboration between both Faramir and Ioreth, since the lists of greetings, ranging vastly from formal to casual (the most casual Faramir taught me in private, since the woman didn't approve of a lady like me using such common terms) crossed into both of their teaching areas. This term was slightly more in the realm of formality, underneath which I'm sure a lot was hidden. Of course, this is all afterthought. At that moment, I just nodded, trying not to start bawling and embarrass myself.

Honestly, though, he meant much more to me than I had thought before that moment. He had been there from the start, albeit unconscious at the time. After that, he was still around. I always passed him in the halls a couple times during the day while we were doing our separate chores. I always ate in the morning and evening with him. He was one of the constants in my life then. So, I guess it makes sense that I grew a little attached to him.

Even so, I had just met him, which logically means that I shouldn't have been tearing up, which in turn means that I held my ground, though a little on the shaky side. Dairuin didn't seem all that confident himself for a moment, but then it seemed to grow a little more, and he turned, bowed to Boromir and Faramir, ruffled my hair, and left without a second glance.


End file.
